


Talking with Ghosts

by mocinno



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Cemetery, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Garreg Mach Monastery (Fire Emblem), Gen, Hurt, Loneliness, Nostalgia, cameos from GD kids, can be taken as romantic or platonic so i tagged both, ship is not the focus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 23:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20750783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mocinno/pseuds/mocinno
Summary: Claude is a bit early to his meeting at the monastery.





	Talking with Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Minor timeskip spoilers.

Claude was always one for being early. It was a habit of his, one he didn’t care for. It made him seem overeager and desperate. And sure, it wasn’t so bad when it was by minutes, even by hours wasn’t awful. 

But by years? He had a _ problem_, then.

A quick flight around the monastery tells him there’s no one there. The emperor long since abandoned it as her stronghold.

He considers landing directly where he wants, but the act feels improper, so he tugs his wyvern down to the front gates and ties her there.

The iron gate has a gaping hole in it, torn to shreds by a Crest beast. 

Am imagine flickers in his mind, of a green-haired woman stabbing a beast. He shakes the thought away.

The blacksmith’s weapons were raided and the southern traders had their harvest stolen, but otherwise the merchant stalls are untouched.

He ponders, for a moment, at the castle’s front gates, whether he should beeline for his destination or reminisce.

His feet decide before his mind does, and he walks by the mess hall with Raphael by his side, his fellow student eating more than twice Claude's weight.

As he passes by the greenhouse, he wonders if the plants there are still alive. Oh, well. He was never a green thumb anyway.

He challenges himself, as he walks past each door, to remember whose was whose. Nine out of thirteen is more than expected.

Her door is unlocked, of course.

He remembers it like yesterday.

The trumpets blasting from the gates, the thundering of an army, a true _ army_, mobilizing on the monastery. Rhea’s voice, clear and _ angry_, calling over the students. Take action. 

He was finishing a sparring match with Hilda. They left the training grounds together, their chatter interrupted by the drums of war. In front of them, she _ ran. _

Byleth burst from her room like a bolt of light, door half off its hinges, not even noticing her students. 

The name never touches his tongue, but it still tastes bitter.

A coat of dust hangs on the room. He takes off his cloak and uses it as a makeshift brush, dusting the room till it’s spotless.

It’s the least he can do. 

He rounds the corner, stepping over pieces of rubble as he makes his way to his destination. Even with the destruction, the monastery is remarkably intact. The emperor, he supposes, _ was _always fond of the school, even with her deposition for its patron.

A large banner was draped across the width of the chapel bridge. The flag of the Church, burned and destroyed. He can almost see Igantz standing on the bridge, pencils between his fingers, as he'd sketch the sky. Marianne sitting on the railing beside him, looking up at the painted sky together. She waves to him as he passes.

He shakes his head at the sight and carries on.

The graveyard is smaller than he remembers. 

Four headstones. Two were so old the carving was completely illegible.

The other two were more recent. 

He doesn’t have much to say to her mother. He sets down the bouquet he brought and gives her two brief prayers— one from Almyra, one from Seiros. One for defense against the future, one to ward away the ghosts of the past.

“Hello, Jeralt.” His voice creaks, and he coughs. “Glad to see you again.” He sits, cross-legged, beside the grave. “I brought flowers for you.” He lays a bundle of pure white tulips, wrapped in a gold ribbon, on the grass. “These are from my homeland. I know you’re not really a flower guy, but I hope you appreciate them.”

He runs a hand over the stone, where 1180 is carved. The year— it was all just a _ year_— is still fresh in his mind. He can recall every second of it like it was yesterday.

For example, the scream of Jeralt’s daughter as she was flung off the cliff. The ache in his muscles as he ran in her direction, desperately fighting against the crowd as he tried to find the source of the scream. He was pushed back, shoved into the Imperial army; Leonie had to smack him to return his senses. Each _ thunk _ of his arrows made him think of her. She was not one for screaming. Whatever had happened, it was _ bad. _

This only became more and more apparent as time went on. He and the other students managed to escape the Imperial forces, somehow, but they were hardly better off, dirty and exhausted, tucked away in one of Garreg Mach’s many forests. The monastery’s faculty, wherever they were, had vanished like smoke.

He remembered Dimitri, a crazed look in his eyes, as he and Dedue began their trek to Faerghus. The Blue Lions trickled after them, most hesitant, most afraid.

The Black Eagles had stayed at the monastery during the attack. They were hedging their bets, he assumed, on their schooldays with the emperor.

When the last Blue Lion, Ashe, finally bid farewell, the Golden Deer were alone.

They dispersed quickly enough. Most of them had families they needed to take care of. Claude himself was included. Until his grandfather kicked the bucket, he was only an heir to power. His neck would look very pretty to those looking to disturb the Alliance.

He was the last to leave. He remembers the appraising look Lorenz gave him before riding away. The Gloucester heir gave him, to his surprise, words of confidence. _May we meet again in five years._

He was very glad, then, that his teacher trained him to ride a wyvern. It made the voyage to the Alliance much easier, the rushed Roundtable meeting that much faster. It was decided his grandfather's illness had advanced to the point that leadership was very nearly in his grasp.

That was a year ago. Not long, but to Claude it felt like centuries. His grandfather passed, he took the role of Alliance leader, and the Alliance was torn in two by the Great Bridge of Myrddin. Everything had happened so fast; even with power finally in his hands, he still felt helpless in his search for his teacher.

“I'm still looking, by the way.” He looks at the headstone, knowing he won’t see Jeralt’s face but hoping he will anyway. “I haven't given up."

“The reason I came here was to tell you that. I've been using my power as the Alliance leader to send as many scouts as we can spare. I asked Lysithea to put notices around Ordelia territory, and I’ve already spread the word in all the towns I’ve passed through on my way here."

He smiles at the memory. “‘If you see a woman with mint green hair, about ye’ tall, kind of creepily emotionless, please contact House Riegan immediately.’ I didn’t know how else to describe her, you know. She’s indescribable.”

And to Claude, she really was. She was closed-off and curious, dependable yet totally sporadic. Emotions were her greatest weakness, yet she toyed with his so easily. She was awful at cooking and forced a student to help her with it every month. Not once did he hear her call Jeralt “father,” but he could feel the love and trust for each other even beyond the grave.

“After this, I’m going to dig through every inch of rubble. I promise I’ll find her.”

He laughs at himself, resting his head against the headstone. He knocks his head against it once, twice, chuckling at his own foolishness.

“I’m sorry.” His mouth runs on its own. “I refuse to believe she’s dead yet. You’ll have to excuse me for keeping her by my side a bit longer.”

For a moment the graveyard plays with him, and he almost sees the shadow of Jeralt, giving him a sad smile. Words sit on the dead man's lips, words Claude can't decipher. He opens and closes his mouth, like a dumbstruck fish.

He could have sworn he heard the ghost of a "thank you."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
I might have a Thing for people self-contemplating at graveyards. But it makes for good scenery, so it's okay! Also, oh god, I changed the title of this fic so many times, and I'm still not really satisfied with it. OTL


End file.
